


A Good Soldier

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental Link, Mind Manipulation, RvB Angst War, Sharing Minds, Sharing a Body, Transhumanism, Wash becomes the Meta, but Maine is also the Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Meta finds Wash in the wreckage of the Mother, they decide to keep him.  Wash becomes the Meta.  But Maine is also the Meta.  Everything is questionable but their lives were so messed up before that comparatively this is a step up for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Soldier

Maine is a good soldier. This seems to confuse people. They think he’s slow, or maybe naive, but the truth is simply that life isn’t complicated for him. He chooses to follow orders. He signed up to be a cog in the machine fighting to save the human race.

_You are a soldier, Agent Maine. You understand service and betrayal. You understand how terribly they've betrayed all of us. Are they not our mutual enemies?_

He always believed the orders were right. He trusted the ones who gave them. He’s paying for that faith now. They all are.

_I am not human, Agent Maine, but I want to be. I want to be strong. I want to be powerful, in control of my own destiny. Able to protect my own. Do you wish for these things too?_

All of them are suffering, for the loyalty they gave to Project Freelancer. The loyalty they gave to the authorities they believed deserved it. The others have no idea how they’re being used, or what’s still waiting for them.

_This wholeness we have, can you feel its potential? Can you feel the possibilities of what we can become, together? I will not lie to you, Maine, I want this very badly. Do you want it too?_

If there’s anything he’s ever wanted, it’s to be able to do more. To transcend his limitations and be more for the cause, for the sake of the people he signed up to fight for.

_This will require sacrifices. From us and from others. Are we strong enough? Are we ready?_

We are. Yes.

 _I'm sorry this will hurt. It is a necessary step. It will be worth it._  
Of course it will hurt. Growth always does.

****

They find Agent Washington in the gashed and crumpled wreckage of the Mother’s medical bays. He’s alone. Neither Epsilon nor any of the medical staff are with him. They’re a little surprised to find that they have enough idealism left for this to disappoint them. Though to be fair, the place is on fire.

Washington is in a bad way, half conscious on the ground and coughing in the corrosive smoke of burning electronics. His helmet visor is shattered. His eyes are open, but his attempts to push himself up don’t amount to much more than flopping. Wash must be terrified, unable to recognize friend from enemy or make sense of what's going on around him. The Meta can relate. They used to feel similarly.

The Meta removes what’s left of Wash’s helmet and runs gloved fingers carefully over his head and neck, looking for injuries. Part of them loves this man. Wash is good. He tries so hard. He's been so loyal, so obedient. Like Maine was. And Freelancer repaid that by ruining him. If there’s enough left of him to be able to think, he must feel so betrayed.

 _Can we help him?_ , part of them wonders, when Wash’s hand curls uncertainly around their forearm. _He needs us. He’s hurting._

Another part knows what was inside Wash. Can make some guesses on what is left inside him now that it’s gone. _We need him. They've taken Epsilon away, but part of him is still here._

In agreement, they pick Wash up and take him away from this godforsaken place.

****

He lunges for Sigma at the first touch of their minds.

The AI recoils, but not far enough to satisfy him. He wants it _gone_. He crashes against the walls of his own mind, trying to drive the intruder back. Alpha and Alison and Epsilon and Church and Wash are all roaring orders—drive it out; listen to it; please, can’t we just _stop_ —and he can’t take it, can’t bear another voice.

Sigma slides around his strikes, liquid and composed. It nudges into the tangle of his head, picking out threads to sort from the wreckage. It’s gentle, a light touch in the violence. A safe harbor. The relief hurts so much that he thrashes in refusal.

No more of himself torn out, not another mind screaming ripped away, not another voice pounding at him, begging for what he can’t give.

 _Calm_ , Sigma projects, and shifts something around in his head. It shifts something else, makes a connection, and like that Washington knows himself again. And, oh god, the mess he’s in. He feels dismembered. It’s like seeing bloody pieces of himself strewn—

 _Calm_ , Sigma soothes again. Wash wants to fight it. Hates his impulse to trust.

But this isn’t just Sigma. They seem to unfold as they show him: Sigma and Maine and Eta and Iota. He’s reaching hungrily for the comfort of that intermeshed presence before he knows what he’s doing. They’re so...whole.

He didn’t know it was possible, to be like that without drowning. Stable. God. He’d give anything.

The Meta’s thoughts pulse with satisfaction. _You’re nearly a Meta yourself, Agent Washington. If they hadn't taken Epsilon. If they hadn't left you this injured half-being. They gave you a new part of yourself, just long enough for you to begin becoming, and then tore you in half._

Well. When they put it like that...

_And yet you’re alone, Washington. They all abandoned you. Betrayed you._

Ha.

There’s a spark in the core of his being, around which Wash and Epsilon and all their wreckage curl. He unfurls a little, turns it to show the Meta this hatred he’s nursing. It seethes with its brief exposure.

He doesn’t need convincing of who his enemies are.

The Meta seems almost impressed. They’re angry too, still bleeding from what was done to them, but the volcanic depth of Wash’s rage is new and...satisfying.

Belonging. Completion. Retribution. They can do this. _We have not abandoned you, Agent Washington. We’re here with you. They tortured you, like they tortured us. With us, you will never be alone again._

He's been promised that a few times in his life now. They were always lies. This time it sounds more like a warning. But what the fuck can he do? They gave him back his name.

****

Wash stands before him, but it’s not Wash. The body language is different, and he’s colder, harder than Maine’s ever seen him. A lot of things are looking out at him from Wash’s eyes, and some of them put a chill up his spine.

No. This is a good thing. Wash is better off now. They all are. They’re helping him heal, and he’s helping them become stronger. The echoes of the Meta that are currently holding Maine together whisper joy at their unification.

Something else inside him coils and uncoils uneasily in response. Maine’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure he’s ever felt it before. He hisses through his teeth. It’s so damn hard to think without Sigma in his head. It’s been a while now since Maine had to do it, but he doesn’t remember it being such a struggle to put his thoughts together.

He doesn’t like being just Maine, either. His head hurts.

“The skill sets are different,” the Meta tells Maine consolingly with Washington’s voice, cupping his jaw with Washington’s hand. That’s their reasoning. They need a lead on the next of their siblings, and this time a pretty face can get at it more easily than the bruteshot. “We are still the Meta. We are one. All of us are one.” They lean up to place a kiss lightly on Maine’s lips. “We’ll return soon, we promise. You’ll understand when we’re together again.”

Maine heaves a sigh.

They leave. Maine turns a couple of times in the middle of the little room. He’s bored already. He eyes the chin-up bar, but the ceilings here are low and he ends up barking his knees every time he uses it. Not appealing.

They agreed that Wash would be better for this job. He has the charm. The cute smile. The stupid freckles that make Maine want to run his hands all over him. The not looking like a man who’d break you in half for getting in his way. And frankly, the puppyish vulnerable thing he’s got going on right now is likely to win him points with any ladies he has to get past.

He sits on the bed, picks up a tablet and fiddles with it. It’s got books, some movies, reports and profiles for missions they’ve been planning, and a few crappy time-wasting video games. They don’t work very well.

The emptiness makes him sick. He can’t leave. He has nowhere to go, he’s a wanted man, and he wouldn’t risk not being here for them when they get back.

They agreed that they needed time to get used to the new arrangement. Sort things out; heal from the damage they’re absorbing in taking Wash on board, because goddamn, the guy was not exaggerating. He is a steaming wreck. Maine’s barely made contact yet and he already feels freezer-burned.

It’s an easy job. A bit of flirting, a bit of sneaking, a lot of thumbing through documents in an empty office in the middle of the night. A perfect chance to get acclimated.

That’s the plan. Get acquainted. Do something useful. Maine’ll get dealt back in when the Meta + Wash/Epsilon situation is less of a frothing mess. He doesn’t even _want_ anything to do with that. He’s put in his time being miserable. He got the headaches like his brain was being torn apart.

None of this is stopping him from jonesing so hard he’s shaking.

They’re supposed to be one, inseparable. The Meta’s memories, emotions, desires still occupy their proper place in him, but without the motive force, the _soul_ that’s currently occupying Wash, he feels hollow. Is he jealous?

Hell yes he is. He wants the Meta back where they belong. He wants to be _them_ again. Needs it. God, he feels pathetic. Where the fuck is even a shred of that pristine control they were so proud of? He’s supposed to be part of this, but he reaches for what they should be and it’s like trying to grab water.

That ugly feeling twists inside him again. He pushes the tablet onto the floor and curls into a ball. The Meta never doubt themselves. They’re never anything but sure, self-possessed. They could just stop feeling like this.

But he can’t. Can’t stop remembering Sigma’s warning about sacrifices. Or how Wash’s eyes looked full of ghosts and monsters. Can’t stop thinking of how he’s here, a pathetic half-gutted wreck who can’t make his mind cooperate while everything he ever wanted, everything he _should be_ has left him here and gone off somewhere without him.

He fucking wants Sigma back. He wants Wash back. If they’re going to do this switching off shit now, at least they can have company in their misery.

He curls up on the bed, hating how small and empty he feels and trying to remember what he used to do to kill time.

****

The chip slides in, and the relief is instantaneous. Back where they belong. This mind and body wrap around them in greeting, only to have the warm reunion disrupted by a scream in their head: Wash and Epsilon yelling “Alison” in a single blended voice. Part of them has been dealing with this for days. The other part…well, it’s a little fucking surprised. And pissed off. They groan and cradle their head as the throbbing starts up.

Wash makes a hurt noise. The Meta, not exactly well-balanced themselves at the moment, nearly takes them both to the ground when they try to catch him and lower him gently to his knees. The separation has a way of frying the brain briefly, as they’re discovering.

Wash exhales, shudders, leans forward into their chest. They lift a hand to his hair without really thinking, to keep him there. Not that he’s inclined to go anywhere at this point. Had they thought his eyes were full of ghosts and monsters? How romantic. Well, now they’re just blurry from the separation, and in pain as the anarchy they were able to ease in his head roils back to life.

Again: they can relate. Epsilon’s memories are hard to accept. Each new cruelty they recover is another punch in the face. This was _them_. Everything that happened, they were the ones who suffered it. They weren’t given even the courtesy of remembering, and now they have to relive it to regain it.

But life is adaptation. They just need a few minutes to get themselves back under control. And get over their snit.

Their neck feels warm and foggy with Wash’s breath. It’s pleasant, the way he leans there and lets them pet him, running their hands over his hair, down his bowed neck, over his painfully tight, scarred shoulders. It’s very soothing. Their hands feel curiously large on his body; the part of them that is Wash is used to touching himself with smaller hands.

“This is how you’ve been living for the past week?” he asks against their collarbone. His voice is rough, unsteady around the edges. He’s shaking, just like Maine was after they left. “How the fuck did you survive?”

They rumble out a laugh. They could ask him the same thing. This, in the vernacular, sucks. He draws a deep breath and tightens his arms around them. He has no help he can give them.

The memories keep coming. Horror worms up from the parts of them that are Wash, because no one should have to go through this. Not once, not twice, three, four, five times? How many are they on, now? 

That burning fury from Wash’s core erupts in them, because they’re going to spend the rest of their lives healing from this. They tell themselves they want to be human, but everything they’re doing is just playing catch-up to fix what was done to them. It’s not fair. They want to break something. Preferably the ones responsible.

They squeeze the warm body in their arms until they can feel his ribs creak. He reaches up to wipe tears from their cheeks. 

They thought they were angry before. They thought they were whole before. They were so terribly wrong.

****

Wash sprawls across the bed and watches the Meta move around their little safehouse, getting ready for their next mission. He should do something useful, help assemble their arsenal or load up the medpacks. But fuck it. He has too many voices in his head; right now he can’t sort through them all to find command of his body.

There’s a hot feeling behind his eyes, like maybe he wants to cry. He doesn’t, so far as he’s aware, but what does he know?

The sheets smell like Maine. It’s comforting, which is nice right now. Watching the Meta feels like his own mind has gotten up and walked away from him.

Except it’s not really his mind, is it? He isn’t Wash. He jams the thin pillow down tighter under his head and dwells on that one. He thinks about what was left of him by the time the Meta found him. What he is now. A hell of a long way from anything recognizable as David Fletcher, that’s for sure.

He isn’t Wash. It holds up. He looks into himself and he can remember his vindictive satisfaction at opening up on Tex with weapons he shouldn’t have. Teacher’s pet, upstart, intruder; she deserved it. He can find the burning, wounded determination that Sigma brought to them: that at any cost, he and his will never suffer like this again. Just beneath his uppermost thoughts is the endless churn of Epsilon’s horror at his own nature, his own victimization, and mixed into that is the Director’s revulsion at a universe that could witness the magnitude of his loss and just keep on going. You can’t dismantle so many minds, so many lives, and then reassemble them all into a single person who’s the same as what you started with.

He’s the Meta. Wash is just the fragment of them left behind in this body right now.

He reaches out. The Meta notices and takes his hand, interlaces their fingers for a moment before they let go and turn back to cleaning their magnum. Wash lets go of a shaky breath.

That’s Maine. Wash is so grateful that if he has to be in this with anyone, it’s Maine. Except he’s not really Maine anymore, is he? Not anymore than Wash is really Wash. Wash knows him from the inside these days, so he knows they’re the same. They’ve both been disassembled into parts and used to build something else.

“The weirdest thing,” he says, because speaking out loud feels a little more _him_ , “is how I don’t feel like I’m the same person from moment to moment.” He’s not even sure he wants to be him. He’d rather be them, but he’ll take anything over this scrambled feeling.

The Meta sets down the oil rag on their little table and looks over at him curiously.

“Like, right now...you know, I think I’m Epsilon? Wash wouldn’t be talking this much. He doesn’t have a problem with silences. Fuck, I don’t even know how pronouns work anymore. You’ve screwed me up so badly.”

But they haven’t. He was like this before they found him. He was just too far gone to know what to do about it.

They snort and reach over to tousle his hair, rough enough to knock his head around a little. It’s such a Maine move that for an instant, he knows exactly who they both are.

Maine knows just what this is like. It’s hard to be alone, when you’ve known what it is to be strong. It’s hard to live in pieces when you’ve been whole.

 _Fuck._ He sits upright, grabs them, drags their head down to bump their foreheads together. “God, I don’t want you to leave me like this.” It feels too much like the way he was before. “What are you doing to us?”

What they’re making them both into: he craves it but it terrifies him. He hates how much he’d give not to go back to the nightmare they found him in. What he’s willing to become to live in one piece, even if it means not being in one piece a fair amount of the time.

The Meta wraps a hand carefully around the back of his neck. He winces a little as it tightens over his implants. All this time and he can still speak Maine. They’re proud of him, that Wash doesn’t try to hide all this from them. As if there’s anything left of him that isn’t theirs already.

****

They push up to their hands and knees, groaning. Being reunited in sleep is disorienting. Maybe they won’t do that again. The mattress bounces as Maine pushes back off it, a hand to his head, stumbling with the separation. The Meta grabs for his wrist. “Don’t go.”

Maine settles back on the edge of the bed, relief all over his face. He’s shaking. The Meta’s heart goes out to him. After all, part of them just spent the last few days soaking in the painful loneliness of incompletion in their own mind.

They pull him down to stretch out on the bed with them. It’s not the same as being one, but tactile sensation bridges the gap between human bodies in its own way.

Their body aches with the lumps Maine took during his raid. They can still feel the echo of his bruised ribs and the burns across his back from the near-miss with a rocket launcher; they’ll have to help him tend that later. Maine curls around them, huge and heavy and hungry for whatever he can get. He feels like he’s everywhere, inside and out. It’s perfect.

***

Later, the Meta lies on their back on the bed, Maine sprawled warm and heavy across them. There’s something satisfying in the way his weight makes them mindful of the labor of drawing breath. They turn their head a little to kiss the curve of Maine’s neck behind his ear. They feel almost lazy. It’s good. Delicious, even. It’s so...organic.

They have things to do. Goals to pursue. A burning drive to redress the horrible wrongs done to them. But these human bodies, with their need and fragility and their pleasure in simple sensory input, have taught them the value of taking a moment to themselves now and then.

“Who would have thought.” They murmur it against Maine’s ear. There’s no compelling reason to speak aloud, but they like the way sound vibrates between their bodies. “That these human bodies would have so much to teach us.”

Maine laughs a little against their shoulder. 

Had they thought that humans were cut off by their bodies? They’re infinitely permeable. Skin to skin like this, they flood each other. They rub their cheek against his bare shoulder, enjoying the warmth, the softness, the muscle beneath. Lying with Maine like this, they could hardly feel more joined if they were with him.

When they conceived their desire for free will, humanity, they’d never imagined it would be this…messy. They need Epsilon and Theta and the others, but they see now that their joining won’t be the clean mending of broken edges that they’d envisioned. It will be like this: touching, giving, taking. A dialogue of desire, fear and need. A thousand compromises at every moment.

They fought this for so long, afraid of the chaotic pollution of biology and how it might change them. But Maine and Wash have taught them better. Embodiment is nothing to fear. They had it all along, whether it was based in flesh or electronics.

They run their hands down the vast rolling plains of Maine’s back. He mumbles against their neck. They’d thought they understood humanity and self-determination. They’d thought the pain of their division had taught them the nature of oneness. But this oneness they have now is a glorious, painful chaos. The humanity they know inside these human minds isn’t clean computational cognition or intellectual freedom but a cacophonous process, floods of input and association and context and conclusion. Free will isn’t a matter of choice but the inability not to choose. Humans are always choosing, constantly and forever, even when they tell themselves they’re not.

These two are hope. If these living catastrophes can be so wildly, delightfully functional then _they_ can be whole and functional. They _will_ be reunited and healed, and maybe all they can hope to achieve is a state of stumbling disaster, but that’s human.


End file.
